Incapaz
by Carolyn984
Summary: Suicide doesn't have to be planned... sometimes, after a period of devastation, the body just lets it happen.


Incapaz

By Carolyn,

"I can't live this life without you by my side

I need you here with me. . ." Evanescence, "Forgive Me"

I don't dream anymore. Not since it happened.

Oh, sure, I used to. Right afterward, I would dream and dream until my heart couldn't face it anymore—waking up to realize it was just my yearning imagination. I think that, after a while, that part of my brain—the part that dreamed—just shut down. I used to dream a lot.

But then again, I used to do a lot of things.

I used to smile.

I don't do that anymore, either.

Now, I can't even remember what it felt like to laugh. I don't remember what it sounded like. I think I can remember that it was nice, though, to laugh.

Just like it was nice to dream. Because I would always dream of you.

I know I was foolish. I know that now. How could I have even toyed with the idea that maybe something could become of us? I told myself I didn't care that you were the way you were. . . that no one else could see you, that I could never share you with anyone. I told myself it didn't matter, although deep down, part of me knew it did.

Funny. I never listened to people when they told me that hindsight was twenty-twenty.

Can you blame me, though? I mean, it was just so nice, to not care. . . to just wrap myself in your embrace like that day at your headstone, and tell myself that none of that mattered. I had you, and that was all I needed.

Little did I know how much that was true.

You were all I needed.

That must be why I'm dying like I am. It's like I've been holding my breath. And slowly, parts of me have been shutting off, one by one.

I'm running out of oxygen. And I don't know how much longer I can survive. Numbly, I feel that it isn't long, though.

I don't feel anymore, either. That's how I can tell. First, just my conscience shut off. My common sense. The part of me that told me what was right and wrong, and what was ridiculous and what could never happen. Of course, that was just denial. That was the easiest part. After all, why would I want to listen to my inner-self haunting me with thoughts that I didn't want to believe? If I didn't have to deal with the sensibility, it would be so much easier to keep on deceiving myself. Telling myself that you would come back.

Then came the dreams. They used to plague me every night, as if your image was painted on the insides of my eyelids. And I was happy, at least temporarily.

Until I woke up. Then my heart would come crashing down, leaving me in insurmountable sobs, with my eyes still playing tricks on me, making me think I caught a glimpse of you by the window seat. There came a point when I think my heart couldn't take the torture anymore.

So I stopped dreaming.

And now, I don't have any more reason to feel. At least when I dreamt of you, I could still remember being happy, even if it was only an artificial happiness. But like I said, there's no reason anymore.

No pain, no guilt, no pleasure.

Most importantly, no sorrow. I am numb.

As far as I know, people have noticed. My family, especially Doc, because he is the only one who has any semblance of an idea, has been treating me especially nicely. They've been walking on eggshells around me, as if they think I might break. My mother has been calling me "Suzie" more often, in that sugary tone of hers. So sweetly, it would have made me more nauseous than the smell of maple syrup in the morning.

But like I said, I don't feel.

Father Dominic doesn't know what to do. He calls me down to the office all the time, but I never have anything to say to him. He tries, in his loving fatherly way, to get me to open up, to return to my old lively self.

She is gone though. And this body is all she left behind.

I wish I could say I felt sorry for causing Father Dom this anguish. It must be hard for him to see me this way, when just a short time ago, he'd been the one trying to calm me, to make me 'use my head,' telling me to be more rational and not jump into situations I wouldn't be able to get myself out of. I think a part of me wants to feel remorse, at least a phantom of it, for the distress I am causing him, but I no longer think I am capable anymore. So, I pick up my things, and with a deadened glance at his soulful blue eyes, morosely ask to leave.

Even Paul has given up on me. I think that's when I vaguely realized that I had died. He doesn't try to pick me up anymore. He doesn't try to talk to me about shifting, because he knows I don't care.

I walk through the hallways, crowded with people, but I don't see a single one of them. There is no one worth seeing.

Not since I stopped dreaming.

2004 by Carolyn


End file.
